Weightless
by lola-leica
Summary: "Today, I was 102. Tomorrow, I'd be 101. And the following day, 100. Just a few days more, and I'd be unstoppable. Just a few days more and I'd be beautiful, invincible. Just a few days more and I'd reach my goal of 95 pounds." Isabella Swan's almost there. She's fragile and frozen and gruesomely thin. Could a trip to Forks help reverse her condition before she becomes weightless?


Inspired by Laurie Halse Anderson's, _Wintergirls._

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Twilight _or _Wintergirls._

* * *

Black and blue mush swirled around the black hole of Dr. Dwyer's (_Mom's_) mouth as she spoke. Some crumbs stuck to the sides of her lips. I made a face as my insides twisted.

"I've e-mailed your father the diet plan you're supposed to follow. He's found a doctor in Forks, some Dr. Carlisle Cullen. You'll check with him regularly, right Bella?"

Her fingers were slick with grease and icing, the artificial blueberry cupcake jammed into the little crevices of her nails as she gobbled another piece.

Mom was eager to send me away to Dad for winter break. She thought I needed some "change." Seemed like balancing work and a pending husband was hard enough; she'd completely forgotten my existence. I'd lost count of the times I'd arrive home from school to emptiness. To large shelves lined with books about the complex heart. To empty, crooked portraits on desolate walls. To notes on pillows and counters reminding me there were leftovers in the fridge.

Mom and I hardly spoke. Only on rare occasions would we speak with one another. And even then somehow words would tangle and knot tightly, just like the taut pink muscles in my stomach, and screaming would ensue. Every conversation either ended or began with a fight, a bang. Mom just couldn't engage in a long enough exchange with me before her eyes would drift toward her phone. She'd then neatly fold her hands in her lap, refraining from answering the buzzing piece of crap. After three rings and two sentences, she'd answer. The phone, not me. She'd depart shortly after, leaving the meat and potatoes I'd made her for dinner untouched.

Mom's the head cardiologist at Phoenix Memorial Hospital. Naturally, she was out more than she was in. Replacing hearts and stuff. I don't know. _Saving lives_. And Dad was the police chief in Forks, Washington. Also (debatably) saving lives. They're both divorced.

"Right."

"Have you had breakfast yet?" My stomach flipped as she rushed frantically about the kitchen, packing my things. Her upper arms joggled then tightened as she held my large suitcases.

"Yes." I lied again.

Her expression hardened as she swallowed the last remnants of the fluorescent blue toxic.

. . . W_hen I was a little girl_, there was no such thing as mushy, unnaturally blue gunk. No. There was clean yogurt and crunchy munchy granola. There were fresh strawberries Mom would buy on bright hot Thursday mornings from the farmer's market down the street from Grandma Marie's. There were blueberries and bananas, peaches and pears. There was healthy. There was good. There was_ full. . . ._

No, I wouldn't allow that stupid lump of mush to pollute my system, drift down my throat and rot. I was winning already.

"What did you eat?"

_Lie._

"Some toast."

Mom stopped stuffing pretzels into a large plastic bag and raised a brow.

"With honey." I added quickly.

_Liar._

"Have some orange juice before you go." She reached into the fridge and pulled out the carton before I could object. Mom poured some into the glass. I stared as her fingers trembled impatiently.

. . . . . . .

The weather in Forks, Washington was rainy, droll. Different. The skies were a muted grey and the wind pounded perversely against my back. I hugged myself closer, gnashing my teeth because they chattered. My stomach felt empty. Empty was good.

I had to admit, Dad's house had character. From the outside, it was painted all white with a red mouth as its door. Upstairs, my room was just as I remembered (it hadn't been touched since the last time I'd visited Forks). The wooden floors still creaked with every step. The soft, colorless wooden panel walls remained dingy and unchanged. Even the large pink elephant I'd painted a while ago stayed taped to the back of the door and the quirky, little old desk where I read, rammed against the corner of the room where some of my books had no doubt matured and collected dust. The bedding however was new, stretched tight over the big fat mattress. Overall, the room was rather large. Smaller than the one in Phoenix but big enough for me.

I sighed and dumped my extremely heavy bags to the floor.

"Like your room, squirt?" the voice made me gasp as I turned my head to see Dad eyeing me suspiciously.

"Yeah," I nodded my head, trying to calm my heart which pumped furiously against my ribs, "It looks great."

Dad sighed. I waited for him to speak again, rubbing my hands together. Was the heater on in here?

"Bells, it's good to have you here."

I nodded appreciatively, "It's good to be here." It's really not.

"Good," Dad stuffed his hands into his pockets awkwardly, "Now, come downstairs. I've made us some pancakes. You must be starving."

. . . . . . .

I moved the syrup (52) around my plate slowly as I sliced two fluffy pancakes (172) into tiny little pieces. Dad sat in front of me, eyeing the demolished platter of food.

"Did you eat something on the plane?"

I shrugged a bony shoulder, "I had a few pretzels."

He made a face. "Plane food's disgusting."

I nodded my head in agreement, mainly at the last two words.

He diced the pancakes with his fork, the constant clanking of the metallic utensils causing me to jump. When had my ears become so sensitive?

Dad spoke again but I wasn't listening anymore. The world tuned out as the overwhelming aroma of cake batter and sticky icky syrup wafted its way successfully into my nostrils and unmercifully put my senses into overdrive. My mouth salivated and my pupils dilated.

Just one bite. Just one bite. _**Just. One. Bite.**_

"Bella, did you hear me? You have an appointment with Dr. Cullen tomorrow. I'll give you directions. It's for a checkup."

_**No.**_

I shook my head and took a sip of water. The muscles in my stomach groaned.

"Check up?" I asked, "What do you mean 'check up?'"

Charlie (_Dad)_ gave me a stern look, "For a physical."

From the sound of his voice I knew the conversation was over. He went back to shoveling food into his mouth. I didn't pry. Instead, I looked into his eyes and saw myself reflected in them. They were a deep brown color, like chocolate.

_ . . . When I was a little girl, _I read a book about eyes. Mom, being the doctor she was, had invested in it for Christmas. I didn't mind, though. At least she'd remembered to get me something. And at least she remembered to say "Merry Christmas" that morning, too.

Dr. Dwyer (_Mom_) wanted me to become an optometrist. Since I had no new dolls or toys to play with, I sprawled myself lazily on the floor, the overly decorated tree twinkling, the warm glass of hot chocolate beside me searing, and my fluffy red reindeer-patterned pajamas itching terribly as I read about pupils. Afterword, I went around spewing unnecessary facts about the human eye to the innocuous public.

I learned that the Latin word for _papilla_ meant "little girl-doll." That pupil had basically earned its name from its Latin origin, tiny little girl-doll, the miniature image reflected in the eyes of another. As I listened to Mom blabber over the phone for hours on end with a friend, laughing at things which weren't remotely as funny as she'd led them to be, I decided to call Dad, my small seven year old fingers stumbling over the numbers Mom had taped to the refrigerator door years before I came along. I smiled when he answered. I gushed about Mom and the book and the yummy cookies she made, telling him they were Grandmother Marie's recipe. Daddy sounded sad so I told him I missed him. I asked him whom he'd celebrated Christmas with. The smell of cloves and ginger burned the back of my throat when he said he was alone. Tears sprung into my eyes and my throat constricted as I dropped the receiver. I ran to my room and locked the door _because I'd realized he was just like me—alone. . . ._

Dad spread more syrup on the cake. I plopped another large portion for show, splitting its middle carefully with a dull knife. Raw, thick uncooked mixture oozed from the wound.

"Jacob's eager to see you."

I couldn't peel my eyes away from the gooey muddle.

"… Jacob?"

"The boy you used to make mud pies with. He's all grown up now," Dad said carrying his dish to the sink, "A real nice kid, you know."

I was silent.

"Still don't remember him?"

I shook my head. "They're coming over tonight?"

"They might." Dad hinted, sipping some coffee.

"Aren't you late for work?"

He glanced at his wrist, "I have a few more minutes."

I stood with my plate in hand.

"You should call your mother... tell her you're alright."

I rolled my eyes and sat back down.

I was _not_ going to call her.

Would she even answer if I did?

Charlie said quietly, gently, "She loves you, Bells. You know that, right?"

"Right," I echoed, slamming my fork down on the table, "Is that why she sent me away? Because she loves me?"

"Bella," Dad said, his gaze fixed directly at me, "Don't say that. You know how much your mother loves you. She did what she thinks is best for you."

I exhaled roughly, letting it go. Tears threatened to spill over my cheeks like they had the time I'd spoken with Dad over the phone on Christmas.

"I'll make dinner tonight." I paused to sip some cool water, "Those pancakes were awful."

"How would you know?" Dad said, grabbing his keys, "You barely put a piece in your mouth."

Ice ran down the back of my throat, lower and lower as it painted my insides a nice clear glaze. Charlie stood far enough for me to see my doll-like figure reflected back in his eyes. He blinked and the upturned girl raged, pounding against the transparent glass with her scrawny fists, begging to be released. Another blink and she was gone.

He said eateateat before walking out the door.

My stomach twisted as harsh iciness pierced my innards. I took another sip before trudging back upstairs.

. . . . . . .

I unpacked my bags slowly because my body couldn't handle the work load.

_Two weeks. You're only here for two weeks._

I pulled out the thickest sweater I owned, two pairs of leggings, sweatpants, and took a very long, hot shower.

Before I entangled myself in toasty warm sheets and adjusted the space heater (whilst simultaneously making certain the windows were securely shut and the drapes were pulled), my entire body quivered.

I was absolutely certain it would snow soon.

Shuddering at the thought, I sipped some hot water from a large mug. It filled my insides and sloshed around. I drank until I felt inflated, like an over-blown, tight water balloon.

Today, I had eaten 28 pretzels (108). _28._ They tasted good. Salty and savory and crunchy and fresh.

Today, I was 102. Tomorrow, I'd be 101. And the following day, 100. Just a few days more, and I'd be unstoppable. Just a few days more and I'd be beautiful, invincible. Just a few days more and I'd reach my goal of 95 pounds.

. . . . . . .

Somewhere between reality and the vast valley of dreams, I heard footsteps drawing nearer.

_Tick Tick Tick_.

They ticked louder and louder with every heavy stalk. A dock switched. Three long gongs rang and then I saw the door inch forward slowly. Light flooded the entrails of my room. A dark head peaked in. She tip-toed, tick tick tick again, like a clock. Then she kneeled and whispered a soft, "Hello." I opened and closed my mouth like a gaping fish, heart beating like the wings of a frantic, caged hummingbird.

"Do you remember me?"

She smiled as I failed to recognize her. Her teeth were bright and straight but her eyes drooped and her skin sagged, black hair lying limply on her gaunt shoulders. I blinked up at her and she said, "Shhh." My mouth opened again but no words came out. I tried to fight her, to drive her hands away from my face but my arms wouldn't respond. They had no strength. The girl grinned ear to ear as she leaned in and whispered again, "Only seven more to go!"

_ 102. 101. 100. 99._

_ 98. 97. 96. 95._

Three knocks on the door and I was awake again. I looked around the room cautiously. No one was there.

"You okay there, kiddo?"

"Dad." I sighed, relieved to see a human besides the one in my dreams.

He looked concerned. His forehead was crinkled as he came and sat next to me. My irregular breaths seemed to concern him.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"A few hours. I just got home. Billy and Jacob are coming over. Get dressed. I'm ordering pizza."

The sentences seemed like a jumble of words. Perhaps, they were. I repeated them again and again in my head before unraveling the puzzle.

_I'm ordering pizza_.

No, I was supposed to make dinner tonight. I was supposed to make Gran Marie's infamous chicken with white sauce. My salivary glands worked at the thought of fresh capers and heavy cream, white meat and penne pasta.

"But dad—"

"It's fine, Bella." He said, "You feeling alright? You don't look very good. Have you eaten something?"

28. I ate 28.

"Yeah."

"You feel a little cold to me." His warm palm felt my forehead, cheeks, and neck. He came up empty.

. . . . . . .

The two layers of leggings I wore never came off, however, the sweats did. Mom had bought me a soft knitted sweater (she knew I would freeze) so I fished that out of the luggage and swiftly put it on. I couldn't feel my fingers as I pulled my still-damp hair into a ponytail. Next I found some woolen socks and knee-length boots. By the time I reached the stairs, I couldn't feel my toes. Slowly I took one step at a time, nearly stumbling twice. My head felt like it had already floated away into another universe and my shoulders felt tight and heavy. All I could really concentrate on was the emptiness and the cold.

_::stupid/ugly/fat/dumb/102/28/_

_108/95/liar/cold/freezing/lost::_

I plopped down on the couch and listened to my heart exhaust itself for a few minutes. I didn't realize I had drifted off again until Charlie nudged me.

"Is she okay?" I heard a pubescent voice crack.

My eyes shot open. Three men stared at me curiously. One of them had longer hair than me. The other was perched in a wheelchair. And the last one had my eyes.

"Jacob, meet Bella. Bella, Jacob." The one with my eyes said.

"Oh now I remember, Dad," I said, looking at the boy with dark, shoulder length hair, "Mud-Face, right?"

Mud-Face chuckled, extending his hand, "Bellarina. Haven't grown much, huh?"

"I could say the same for you."

"Hey, watch it," Jacob "Mud-Face" Black quipped, beaming, "I eat more than all the boys back at the reservation combined, you know."

I nearly gagged.

"Right, right." I turned toward the man in the wheelchair, "Billy! How are you?"

I gave Billy Black, Jacob's dad, an awkward hug. "Just fine, Bella. It's nice to finally see you again."

"Good," Dad nodded, "Now that y'all have reunited and everything, let's have some dinner."

. . . . . . .

It was baseball night at the Swan Residence. Billy and Dad always had these nights every other day. But tonight was a "special occasion." Billy brought beer. Dad ordered pizza. And we all sat happily ever after before the flickering television screen like zombies. A plate of pepperoni pizza graced our laps. _Pepperoni Pizza_. My favorite.

Jacob raised the slimy slice to his lips and took a bite.

"How've you been, Mud-Face?"

"Will you stop calling me that? I'm sixteen years old, Bella."

I thinned my eyes.

"Don't." He warned.

"_Mud-Face_."

"Ugh."

We both laughed.

"So," I smiled again, ignoring the ache in my stomach, "How've you been, Mud-Face?"

It seemed my grin was contagious because he couldn't resist but crack one, too. "Same old, same old. What about you, Bellarina? Still dance?"

"Not anymore. And you? Still make mud pies, Black?"

"Will you stop?" He rolled his eyes, smirking.

I couldn't help but tease him. The way his eyes lit up made him look younger. I liked that. They reminded me of the good times, of my childhood.

I took a deep breath. The greasy scent assaulted my lungs. My stomach moaned.

"Nope. This is too much fun." I said.

It had been years since I'd seen Jacob. When I'd visit Dad every summer, Jacob and Billy would come over and we'd spent days talking and giggling about anything and everything. We were best friends who came from two different worlds. We were alike in many ways but also very different. How could I have forgotten about our healthy relationship?

"So, Bella… you gonna eat something or what? Your pizza's getting cold."

Pizza. One slice (285) = DANGER.

28. 28. 28._ You had 28._

"No. I'm really full."

I eyed the cheese and grease, holding my breath.

"You sure?"

"Yeah." I whispered.

He eyed me suspiciously then leaned over and pulled the pizza away from my lap. I twisted my hands as I watched him chew quickly.

. . . . . . .

Soon, the game had faded into static chaos. The nearly silent feed still buzzed in the background as my head rolled, resting against the old, tattered couch.

It took every ounce of strength I had within me to keep my eyes open but my body won this time. The lids slid shut, defeated. From the corner of my eye, I could still see Jacob's working jaw, head turned away from me as he too watched the match flash before his eyes.

* * *

**Please review if you'd like me to continue. **


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